


A Little Perseverance

by Writcraft



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Banter, Blow Jobs, Dick Pics, Dirty Talk, Ex-Auror Harry Potter, Face-Fucking, Getting Together, H/D Erised 2020, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Holidays, Humor, Identity Porn, Implied Switching, M/M, Magical Theory (Harry Potter), Matchmaking, Past Draco Malfoy/Original Male Character(s), Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Past Harry Potter/Oliver Wood - Freeform, Post-Hogwarts, Professor Harry Potter, Puns & Word Play, Romance, Sexting, Shop Owner Draco Malfoy, Tattoos, Wandlore (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28328238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: Harry’s wand is dying and Draco’s flirtation with a magical matchmaking service is causing him no end of trouble. When Harry turns up at Draco’s shop looking for help, everything gets a lot more complicated.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 72
Kudos: 730
Collections: H/D Erised 2020





	A Little Perseverance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prolix (shal)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shal/gifts).



> Thank you so much for your wonderful prompts, Prolix. I had a lot of fun writing this for you and I hope you enjoy this story. A very happy holidays to you. To my darling beta G, thank you so much for your work and helping me get this into shape with a tight turnaround and as ever, thank you to the wonderful HD Erised Mods for running this fabulous fest during a very difficult year.

The brass key is warm and solid in Draco’s hand, the turn and click of it still a thrill. Although the small, crooked shop on the edge of Hogsmeade village might not look like much, opening the door that separates his home from his workplace reminds Draco of the time it took to reach this point. The early years after the war passed in a listless blur of Wizengamot trials, arguing with his mother and father, travelling around the world with no clear destination in mind and hot, sweaty nights on beaches warmed by the blistering midday sun. Some people might have accused Draco of running away. Draco prefers to think of it as staying alive: breathing in new, exhilarating ways of seeing the world, leaving old opinions behind with a ragged exhale.

Draco hates the notion of finding oneself, because it implies something lost or waiting to be discovered. Draco knew exactly who he was during those messy, tumultuous years of racing around the globe. That was part of the problem. Even the first taste of another man, mingling with the salty sea-spray from Fire Island’s shores and the icy, cool sweetness of rum and Coke simply affirmed what he already knew. If anything, Draco’s travels left him even more adrift. His wealth combined with the hot-headedness of youth, heightening his arrogant determination to live like a Muggle and leave the magical world that despised him far behind. Malfoys have never been good at humility. The thought of swallowing his pride and staying grimly silent when confronted with the judgment of the wizarding world held no appeal. _Fuck you_ , Draco thought when the images of people in the wizarding world flickered before his mind in the dark, quieter moments. _Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you_.

Draco can’t pinpoint the precise moment that altered his perspective and forced him to take a good, hard look at himself. Perhaps it was the vibrations of the largely unused wand he always kept close at hand, the times he would try to find old copies of the _Daily Prophet_ in local magical areas, the hoot of an owl during the evening, or one of the other countless ways that things left behind can remind someone of their presence. It took eighteen months of hedonistic travel and two long, brutal years back in wizarding Britain for him to learn the hard way that no amount of money, good looks or charm could undo the wrongs of the past. During those two years, Draco worked in whatever jobs would take him, from collecting glasses at the Leaky Cauldron to working in the post room at the _Daily Prophet_. He finally settled into a job that suited him well, at the wizarding library in London. On his breaks he read as much as he could and discovered his interest in wandlore. Once he had found his faltering feet in Britain again, Draco cut ties with the Manor and packed the last of his bags. He left Britain for Paris, where he studied wandlore for three years at the magical branch of the Sorbonne. After that, he spent a further three years in Munich under the tutelage of Mia Gregorovitch.

Returning to Britain on the cusp of spring reminded Draco of the things he missed during his time abroad. He found himself taking long walks in the countryside to clear his head. He would practice the magical skills he had acquired in Europe in the vast, open spaces of Wiltshire. It was several months later when he spotted a small advertisement in the paper for the higgledy-piggledy little shop in Hogsmeade. All too aware of the crimes committed against Garrick Ollivander at the Manor, Draco was determined not to establish a business that would compete with Ollivander’s in any way. Instead, he set up a shop that focused on wand restoration and repair, rather than making and selling new wands. _Malfoy’s Wand Restoration_ and the modest living quarters above it may not be as grand as sprawling country piles or as exclusive as his old Knightsbridge townhouse, but over the last couple years it has felt increasingly like home.

Draco never expected to be content somewhere like Hogsmeade, which is the sleepiest of villages outside of term time. Hogsmeade in the summer is quiet, like the warmth of the sun has lulled it into a prolonged nap. The autumn always passes in a blur of new students and Hogwarts staff bustling around the streets in their robes and house colours and Draco has never been overly fond of giggling first years, whispering about his rumoured paramours. It’s when the crisp bite of winter announces itself with its usual tenacity, that Draco is at his happiest. He finds he enjoys the icy, Scottish air and the cosiness of his shop even more with each new turn of the season. With a contented hum, Draco sets about lighting the oil lamps that heat the small space and throws some wood on the fire. He turns the _Closed_ sign to _Open_ , puts his magical coffee machine to work on grinding fresh beans and reaches for his favourite writing quill with its elegant peacock feather. He ignores the other quill that shivers and flexes beside him, like it’s stretching in preparation for the new day.

“There’ll be none of that. You’ve been nothing but trouble,” Draco mutters. The last thing he wants on a perfectly pleasant Monday morning is to deal with Quick-Match. He points a finger at the quill which gives him another insolent, feathery flutter. It curls in on itself and turns in the ink pot in an agitated fashion. With a resigned sigh, Draco taps his wand against a blue book. “ _Fine_. Go on, then.”

The book flips open and the parchment pages fan out until they open on a half-empty page. With another excited flutter the quill springs into action, writing furiously in the open book.

 **Griffin:** I nearly froze my bollocks off going for a swim this morning. It’s colder than a _Glacius_ outside.

 **Griffin:** Mondays are rubbish. It’s mornings like this I wish I had something warmer than a Quick-Match Quill to curl up with. The feathers don’t half make me itch.

Draco’s heart quickens and with a huff of irritation, he closes the book with a snap. After shoving it into his desk drawer, together with the still quivering quill, Draco sits back in his chair and contemplates his surroundings. He pushes the latest messages from Griffin to the furthest corner of his mind and tries to relax.

The familiar scents of coffee, books and ink waft pleasantly around the cosy space and the chill of winter is kept at bay by the warmth of the oil lamps and the crackling fire. It doesn’t take long for Draco’s mood to lift as the niggling reminder of this morning’s unanswered note soon dissipates. The whole sorry _Griffin_ debacle aside, it really is the perfect morning.

It’s the kind of day that swells with promise.

*

The first half hour after opening is always slow, but that never bothers Draco. He savours the opportunity to enjoy his coffee without interruption and completes a satisfying number of mundane administrative tasks that need his attention.

At around nine o’clock, the shop bell _dings_ to announce the arrival of Draco’s first customer. Harry blusters into the shop with a sharp gust of icy air and all of Draco’s good cheer rapidly fades away.

“Morning Malfoy,” Harry says. He’s as brusque as ever, barging into Draco’s space like a Beater thwacking the Bludger at the nearest Seeker’s head. “I need your help.”

The sight of Harry Potter with all his ineffable charm standing in Draco’s sanctuary is not exactly a welcome one. The reminder of Griffin’s messages from early that morning surface unpleasantly. A strange, guilty knot twists in Draco’s stomach, leaving him mildly nauseous. Damn Harry and his ability to insinuate himself into every aspect of Draco’s life. He can’t even get respite when he’s at work, it seems.

“You must be desperate if you need my help.” Draco stands and busies himself rearranging an already perfectly organised stack of wands, in a vain attempt to keep his thoughts from straying beyond business. Looking at Harry head on tends to lead his mind in a decidedly non-business-like direction. “Aren’t you supposed to be educating your protégés by telling them about your heroic conquests?”

“I’m not teaching until this afternoon.” Harry pokes at a book on the holistic benefits of Mandrake roots which shrieks in response. “Shocking as it might be to you, I’m perfectly capable of teaching subjects other than Harry Potter Studies.”

“Is that a recent addition to the school curriculum?” Draco pulls a face, not quite managing to conceal his distaste at the thought. “The _Prophet_ must be right about magical education going downhill faster than a herd of rampaging mountain trolls.”

“No, it’s not a real subject and if it was, the last thing I would want to do is teach it.” Harry laughs under his breath. “Are you this rude to all your paying customers?”

“You haven’t paid me anything yet. Besides, I might not want to accept your business,” Draco snaps. It’s a lie, of course. He already knows full well he’s going to do whatever Harry needs and the steady look he receives in response makes him suspect Harry sees right through the façade. He huffs and holds out his hand. “ _Fine_. I suppose you should show me your wand.”

“Talk about blowing hot and cold.” Harry’s lips tug into a crooked smile. He extracts his wand from his pocket. “Are you always this direct with wizards that come into the shop?”

Draco rolls his eyes. From someone else, he might have taken the comment as a non-too-subtle barb about his sexuality. However, Draco is all too aware of Harry’s interest in wizards, which is part of the problem. Not to mention Harry is too good a man to intentionally make the kind of joke that would leave someone ill at ease. Even with the obvious heroism associated with Harry’s name and the valour of his past stripped away, Harry has integrity. He may sometimes display an uncharacteristic unkindness in a flush of impetuous anger, but those moments are as fleeting as a hailstorm. From the wretched Quick-Match debacle, Draco is well aware of the demons Harry still has to contend with. Despite the deaths, the unwanted fame and the way Harry seems so restless at times, he is a thoroughly decent man. That too, is part of the problem.

“Wand jokes,” Draco comments. “How very droll. I expected more from you.”

“Give me time. I haven’t had a coffee yet.” Harry glances at Draco’s coffee machine and nudges his glasses up on his nose. “Is that just for staff?”

“Yes.” Draco begins to make Harry a coffee anyway and takes a moment to watch Harry nosing around the shop like he’s still an Auror sniffing out any signs of trouble. He doesn’t have a clear sense of why Harry left the Ministry for Hogwarts, when his Auror instinct still seems as sharp as ever. Harry is alert, astute, and lately Draco is far too easy to read, which is just another one of a long list of reasons why he should spend as little time with Harry as possible.

It’s not that they harbour any ill will towards one another anymore, but they’re hardly friends. Even if the sharpness of past acrimony has softened, Harry still has the capacity to wind Draco up like nobody else can. To make matters a hundred times worse, he’s also handsome. His atrocious dress sense has improved over the years and in casual jeans and midnight blue jumper, with his shock of dark hair, distinctive green eyes and his firmly set jaw, Harry Potter is as depressingly attractive as anyone Draco has ever met. It’s a damned inconvenience.

“You appear to have mistaken me for Madam Puddifoots.” Draco hands Harry his coffee. “I didn’t study wandlore for six years to spend my valuable time making you coffee.”

“I haven’t made any mistake.” Harry takes his coffee and hands his wand to Draco, with a reluctance that belies how much he loathes being without it even for a second. “I think my wand is dying.”

Draco takes the wand carefully in his hand and bites back a groan of pleasure as warmth travels over his skin like a caress. The magic is confident and instantly familiar, but it’s far weaker than Draco would have expected from someone with Potter’s history. Holding Harry’s wand is the magical equivalent of straining to hear a favourite song that keeps getting lost on a changing wind.

“It’s wilting.” Draco gives the wand back to Harry. “Wands don’t die, they wilt.”

“Same difference.” Harry blows on the coffee and it steams his glasses. “Can you do anything about it?”

“Not without more information.” Draco points to a pile of forms on his desk. He’s very fond of forms. “It’s rare that wands wilt unless their owners have died and that hasn’t happened to you.”

“Not for ages,” Harry agrees. He’s such a strange fish, Draco has no idea what he’s talking about half the time. “Do I need to fill out a form?”

“Yes. I need to understand the chain of events that led to your wand losing its magic.” Draco rather enjoys how put out Harry looks at the idea of paperwork. “Even when owners die, it’s rare to see an issue with Holly wands. Hazel wands are the ones that suffer the most. Do you need a spare in the meantime?”

“If I have to.” Harry pulls a face. “I’ve got an appointment with a Boggart at three and I can’t have a wonky wand for that. There’s always a risk someone’s Boggart will be Voldemort. That tends to cause a lot of upset for children who lost family in the war and I need to be able to handle it quickly.”

Draco winces at the thought of Voldemort appearing in front of a class of wide-eyed pupils. He’s not sure he could cope with that, let alone educate teenagers to turn the Dark Lord into _comedy_. He doesn’t envy Harry that task and wonders, not for the first time, how Harry can live, sleep and work in a place with so many memories that scream through the castle walls. It would drive Draco mad.

“I’m not in the business of giving spare wands to just anyone, but I suppose I can make an exception.” Draco gives Harry a critical look, trying not to let his gaze linger for too long. On the cusp of thirty, Harry’s face is endlessly expressive, his mood evident in every broad, easy smile or agitated frown. He still has the same restless, boyish charm and energy that reminds Draco of Quidditch leathers, the thud of Harry’s magic landing squarely in his chest and the temptation of old to make a sport out of their conversations. Over the last few years when Draco found himself confronted with Harry Potter, he could never quite decide if he wanted to fuck him or fight him. Today, unfortunately, Draco knows exactly what he wants to do.

As much as he desires Harry, Draco can’t help but envy him. There’s a boldness to the way he carries himself and he exudes the kind of confidence that comes with being completely settled in himself—something that has always eluded Draco. For all his restlessness, moving from the Ministry to Hogwarts, taking on a multitude of odd jobs and constant thrill-seeking, Harry still possesses the strength of character and courage of conviction that suggests he can be happy alone, in those quiet moments that cause Draco such difficulty. Even though the past doesn’t return to him like a punch to the gut with the same regularity as before, it will always be there. Memories of all those things he was complicit in haunt the sleepy summers and winter’s longest nights. He sometimes thinks of himself as a wand with an unstable or hollow core. It’s as though part of Draco will always have to contain a dark, empty space where the past can echo and reverberate.

“Alder, I think.” Draco shakes himself and returns to his task, making every effort to keep things business-like. He selects a handful of wands and watches as Harry picks each one in turn, getting the feel for them. “Try not to look so miserable about it. Wands pick up on that sort of thing you know.”

“I know.” Harry shoots Draco a wry smile. “Finding a replacement for a dying wand isn’t like choosing your wand for the first time though, is it? It’s more like having a favourite pair of Quidditch socks and trying to replace them with someone else’s sweaty socks from the lost property box.”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t compare my wands to mouldy socks.” Draco huffs with annoyance, watching Harry cast his listless spells. “Alder can be stubborn. If you don’t want it, there’s a chance it won’t take to you much either.”

“Not so different to us wizards then,” Harry murmurs. He slides the wand between his fingers and casts a sharp, crisp _Lumos_ which sends light surging through the shadowy space. “We all like to be wanted, don’t we?”

Draco shrugs, as if he couldn’t care less. The memory of a late-night exchange with Griffin during the weekend surfaces with force and Draco shoves it to one side before Harry can pick up on his strange reaction.

“Here.” Draco pulls another wand from the shelf, passing the box to Harry. “Try this one.”

Harry takes the wand, and the immediate thrum of magic tells Draco the selection has been successful. Even if choosing a wand to work with temporarily isn’t the same as selecting a permanent wand, for someone in Harry’s position it’s vital that any wand Draco provides will respond to him quickly.

“That’s the one.” Harry slides the wand between his fingers, taking in the smoothness of the wood. “I don’t think I’ve had a go with an Alder wand before. What’s that all about?”

“Alder often responds best to advanced witches and wizards and is particularly suited to those who excel in non-verbal spells.” Draco recites Ollivander’s notes, even though he has his own thoughts on Alder, primarily influenced by the differing perspectives of Gregorovitch. Draco swallows at the steady look Harry gives him, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Don’t look so shocked, Potter. I gather from the grapevine non-verbal spells are something of a specialty of yours. I thought you might find a wand that lends itself to that skill most useful.”

“Yeah, they are.” Harry blinks at Draco. Heat crawls across Draco’s skin and he sincerely hopes the flush in his cheeks isn’t visible. “You’ve been paying attention.”

“You’re the most famous wizard in Britain,” Draco snaps. “It’s not like I ask to be bombarded with continuous updates about your dull life.”

“I’m sure you don’t.” Harry sounds amused. He flicks the wand, sending a powerful hum of magic through the shop without uttering a word. He’s such a bloody show-off, Draco refuses to display even a flicker of respect. He keeps his expression cool and crosses his arms to avoid yanking Harry closer to explore what other tricks he has up his sleeve. “This will do. This will do very nicely indeed. What’s the core?”

“Thestral tail hair.” Draco holds up a hand when Harry begins to protest. “I know Ollivander doesn’t believe in anything other than Dragon heartstrings, unicorn hair or phoenix feathers, but I learned my craft from Gregorovitch’s daughter. It’s not unheard of to use Thestral tail hair in wands in other parts of the world.”

“I know. It’s not the first time I’ve seen it.” Harry seems lost in thought as he studies the wand with a frown. “I’m not sure I like it.”

“Surely the great Harry Potter isn’t afraid of a few Thestrals?” Draco can’t help but be smug about finding the chink in Harry’s armour. “I suppose they can be rather intimidating.”

“It’s not that. I love Thestrals.” Harry shrugs and pockets the wand. “It doesn’t matter. It’s a long story.”

“We may have time for you to tell it when you next come in.” Draco clears his throat when another curious expression crosses Harry’s features. “I tend to prefer clients to stay when I work on their wands. I’d rather not have cause to be hauled before the Wizengamot again in my time and wands can be tricky things. If someone is unhappy with the result, it wouldn’t be too difficult for them to suggest some sort of malpractice on my part. Think of it as extra insurance.”

“If you like.” Harry has the same amused tone as before, a playful smile making his eyes shine. If Draco didn’t know better, he would almost think Potter was flirting with him. “Look, about malpractice—”

“Once an Auror, always an Auror,” Draco mutters. “Go on, then. You might as well tell me the problem. It’s nothing I won’t have heard before.”

Draco has learned _some_ humility, but he can’t deny that the sense he’s about to get a lecture from Potter rankles. Any flicker of pleasure he gained from being trusted with precious Harry Potter’s wand disappears entirely.

“Shut up, will you.” Exasperated, Harry removes his glasses and cleans them on his jumper. The sight of him without them makes Draco’s breath catch because there’s something so intimate about it. He remembers Griffin complaining about glasses getting in the way of things and another flush of heat warms his skin as his thoughts travel to other, unwelcome places. “I’d be a right idiot if I didn’t reinforce the need to keep this confidential. Not because you’re—well, _you_ —but because there are plenty of people who would love to get the information that my wand’s dying and for all the wrong reasons.”

“Wilting,” Draco reiterates. He leans back on his desk and contemplates Harry. “It may surprise you to learn I’m not an idle gossip. I’m not about to go running to the _Prophet_ with a story about wonderful Potter’s wonky wand.”

“That’s alright then.” Harry rolls his eyes and shoves his glasses back on. He grabs one of Draco’s forms and leaves his coffee cup on the desk, before making his way to the door. “For the record, I wouldn’t be here if I thought you’d go blabbing to the press. Things have changed haven’t they, Malfoy?”

“If you say so.” Draco waves a careless hand in the direction of the door. “Bugger off and let me get on with my work. Try not to destroy another wand before you book your next appointment and send back the paperwork as soon as you can.”

“I’ll do my best. Do you have any free time this weekend?” Harry sounds hopeful.

“I do after hours appointments for one-to-one consultations.” Draco taps his wand against the stack of forms. “It’s in the paperwork. You can book your slot via owl. I’m not cheap.”

“I expected nothing less.” Harry laughs under his breath. “It’s a date.”

Harry’s out of the shop in another gust of icy wind before Draco can churlishly tell him it’s nothing of the sort.

*

The rest of the working day is sufficiently busy that Draco doesn’t have much time to think about Harry until he’s closing the shop for the evening. Pulling a face, Draco removes the quill and notebook he shoved in a drawer earlier in the day. With a sigh of resignation, he taps his wand against the notebook. It opens eagerly, the quill springing into action.

 **Griffin:** I’m going to be busier than a Cornish Pixie today, so I probably won’t be around until later on.

 **Griffin:** I hope you have more exciting plans for the day than I do.

When the quill has finished scribbling out its message, it jumps into Draco’s outstretched hand. 

**Jean-Paul:** I’ve had a busy day at work too. What the fuck were you thinking going for a swim this morning? It’s practically Arctic.

 **Griffin:** I went to see an old acquaintance this morning. I needed something to clear my head.

Draco taps the feather against his lips before writing a reply.

 **Jean-Paul:** Have you warmed up yet or do you want a hand?

With a groan, Draco shuts the damn book and puts his head in his hands, cringing at his own cheesiness. Fucking Quick-Match. Fucking _Potter_. It’s all such an utter mess. Despite the supposed anonymity of Quick-Match, Draco knows exactly who _Griffin_ is. Seeing Harry in the flesh in his shop today put things into perspective. It’s a lot easier to have an illicit correspondence-based affair with someone when they’re not standing in your shop looking sad about their wand, arranging private consultations and calling them _dates_.

Draco had no intention of signing up for Quick-Match, the hottest new craze in the wizarding world designed to offer a solution to all romantic woes. Draco is attractive, wealthy, he has his own business and he’s worked hard to become a better man than the child he used to be. As evidence of the time put into reforming his character, last year Draco even appeared on the bumper end-of-year _Witch Weekly_ list of The Year’s Most Eligible Bachelors. They did give him the smallest photograph in the corner of a page advertising invisible cauldrons admittedly, but making the cut marked a small step forward. Naturally, Potter received a two-page spread and a life-size poster. Draco supposes when it comes to eligible bachelors, some are more eligible than others.

The point is, Draco didn’t need a dating service that promised it could deliver the _perfect partner for any witch, wizard or other magical person_! He’s perfectly capable of meeting men, he hates fads and gimmicks, and he can think of better things to do with his time than write love letters with a charmed quill and parchment. Somewhere along the line however, the lure of trying out the matchmaking service became irresistible. Draco has already worked his way through most of the wizards that frequent The Purple Niffler. Muggle London with its bright lights and loud music does nothing for him, and he usually ends his nights out sleeping fully clothed and waking up with a steaming hangover for company. He supposes he should know better than to join Zabini for _just the one_ , which inevitably turns into several bottles of overpriced Sancerre and getting sucked off in the loos by a Muggle who talks too loudly, smokes vile cigars and runs his own hedge fund in Mayfair. Draco barely remembers their names, despite the business cards he’s collected on the off chance he fancies being bored to death again. He should probably just _Incendio_ them all, together with his Quick-Match Quill and Passion Parchment. They’ve been nothing but trouble since the day they arrived.

It all started with Evaporates, the magical photographs designed to disappear after an hour. They are entirely to blame for Draco’s current predicament. If Quick-Match didn’t hold the sole license to Evaporates and if Theo Nott hadn’t boasted at length about his countless kinky encounters thanks to Quick-Match and their disappearing photographs, Draco wouldn’t be in this mess. He was going through something of a dry spell and Quick-Match seemed to offer a good way to while away another sleepy Hogsmeade summer. Draco only signed up because he was horny, although for a fleeting moment he considered the possibility he might meet somebody interesting for a change. Fat chance of that. He’s been sent enough unsolicited Evaporates to last a lifetime. Quick-Match is full of wankers. Literally.

He could have just stopped using the service but then _Griffin_ came along, with a coquettish ruffle of Draco’s Quick-Match Quill. Ever since their first exchange, Draco’s life has turned into one gigantic, Potter-shaped disaster. Draco wishes he still had the first Evaporate to hand because remembering it makes his mouth water, even now. After the usual pleasantries, Draco sent a careless Evaporate before opening the one Griffin sent to him. The last thing he expected was a beautiful, perfectly proportioned cock and the gnawing realisation that there was something familiar about the magical tattoo fluttering against Griffin’s hipbone. _Harry’s_ hipbone.

Even Draco’s knowledge of the tattoo is awkward as fuck. When he stumbled across Harry at _Swish and Flick_ , the gym down a back-alley off Hogsmeade High Street, the last thing he expected was for Harry to take such long, steamy showers and walk around with a skimpy towel to cover his modesty. Although they rarely spoke for long, they were often there together, alone, having discovered a mutual fondness for exercising at weird times. Harry takes an age to dry himself, towelling every drop of water from his body and scrubbing places that really don’t need to be scrubbed after an hour on an exercise broom. It’s as though the Saviour of the Wizarding World has never heard of a Cleaning Charm or Dry-Me-Quick Spell in his life.

The tattoo is so distinctive, Draco can’t believe Potter is hard up—or stupid—enough to send Evaporates out to any old stranger so willingly. Anybody paying even the smallest bit of attention to Harry in the showers—it’s not like Draco was staring or anything—would have recognised it instantly. The more Draco studied ‘Griffin’s’ tattoo (and the rest of him) the more convinced he became of the identity of the person hiding behind the fake name. The phoenix is unmistakable. The curve and twist of it, the bright feathers and the bold spread of the phoenix wings on Harry’s stupidly attractive body.

A sensible man would have closed the conversation and never spoken to Griffin again. Either that, or they would have revealed their own identity at once. Unfortunately, Draco is not a sensible man which is why he’s been chatting to Griffin, daily, ever since. Convincing himself he hates Harry is becoming harder by the second which makes the whole debacle even more wretched. Griffin— _Harry_ —is interesting, funny and has the filthiest mouth and most delectable looking cock Draco’s ever encountered. It's got to the point where he even looks forward to the obnoxious vibrations of his Quick-Match Quill. Somewhere between the first dick pic and the last, Draco’s heart has become involved.

Unfortunately, Harry has no idea that Draco is _Jean-Paul_ , the name Draco uses to protect his anonymity. Of every problem Quick-Match has caused, that’s the biggest of them all. Draco knows he has to do something, but he can’t just pack it in after chatting to Harry for one long, balmy summer and a hectic autumn. It wouldn’t be right, and Draco is, despite all evidence to the contrary, trying very hard to do the right thing these days.

 _You don’t want to stop talking to him_ , Draco’s very annoying inner voice reminds him. _That’s why you’re still using Quick-Match. You like Harry Potter._

With a growl of annoyance, Draco leaves the shop to go back to his quarters and determines to put Harry to the back of his mind for the rest of the evening.

It takes less than five minutes for Draco to return and grab the Passion Parchment and Quick-Match Quill, just in case.

*

“I can’t stop long.” Harry seems to be making a habit of being Draco’s first customer of the day, blustering into the shop on Tuesday morning shortly after opening. “My owl’s knackered after a round of back and forth with Kingsley yesterday. I thought I’d give her the day off and drop the paperwork across to you myself.”

“Don’t they have spare owls for staff?” Draco can’t believe Harry gives his owl a day off. They’re bloody _owls_ for Merlin’s sake; he’s fairly certain they don’t have employment contracts. Flying is what they do. They enjoy it.

“The problem with staff owls is you don’t know where their loyalties lie.” Harry frowns and glances away. “I wasn’t kidding about keeping this confidential. Nobody knows I’m having issues with my wand apart from McGonagall and Kingsley. It’s better that way.”

“Surely people have got bored of trying to kill you by now?” Draco arches an eyebrow at Harry, wondering what it must be like to live under such high alert at all times. “I’d say you’re long overdue a rest.”

“It’s not that bad.” Harry laughs, shaking his head at Draco. “It’s just precaution. Aurors piss a lot of people off. Most of them pissed me off, half the time.”

“Is that why you left?” Draco has always been curious about Harry’s sudden move from the Ministry to Hogwarts when everything seemed to be going so well for him. Although the salacious gossip columns about a failed relationship with everyone from Kingsley Shacklebolt to Hermione Granger were entertaining, Draco didn’t believe them for a second. “I just assumed you and Weasley were Ministry men.”

“Merlin, no.” Harry pulls a face. “You make it sound so bland, being in someone’s pocket.”

“It’s politics.” Draco shrugs. “The Ministry has its flaws, you know that better than anyone.”

“Too right,” Harry mutters. “Ron left because he wanted to work with George. It’s a lot more fun than getting _Crucioed_ during a stakeout or wrangling with the British Museum over an ancient artefact that’s actually an illegal Time-Turner.”

“Why did you leave?” Draco nods towards the holster on Harry’s jeans. “Because of the wand?”

“At first.” Harry nods. “It was never meant to be permanent, the thing at Hogwarts, but Dragomir—Professor Peakes—is retiring from the Defence position next year. McGonagall asked if I would consider it and the rest is history. I’ve been sorting out all the administrative stuff at the Ministry with Kingsley. In the meantime, I do a bit of everything. Groundskeeping, mainly, while Hagrid’s off seeing the world with Maxime. But there’s Quidditch and the odd Defence class I teach with supervision from Dragomir. I do some Quidditch training too. Hooch is up to her eyeballs with the new kids and the House Tournament, so I do separate classes for the ones that really can’t fly for toffee.”

Everything begins to slot into place. Unlike most of the staff who have specific subjects to teach, Harry is more likely to be found swanning around Hogsmeade in his Quidditch leathers one minute and teaching students how to defeat a Boggart the next. On one balmy summer evening after meeting with McGonagall to discuss starting his own apprenticeship in wandlore, Draco happened upon Harry in a small clearing, cooing over baby Thestrals and whispering to them in a low, soothing tone before disappearing off into the Forbidden Forest. Probably foraging for Blast-Ended Skrewts, knowing Potter. It’s exactly the kind of ugly thing he would find charming. It makes sense he would start his life at Hogwarts as a mini-Hagrid, literally and figuratively.

“I wouldn’t have thought your Defence classes would need much supervision.” Draco takes Harry’s form and settles at his desk to read through it. “If anybody knows that subject, it’s you.”

“The practical side is easy. The theory is harder.” Harry shrugs. “I’ve never been one for books. Besides, I’ve always hated leveraging off my name and I want to do things properly. It’s already an unusual enough situation and there’s still plenty I can learn. You know how quickly kids can lose respect for staff. The last thing I want is for someone in the press to insinuate I got the job because of my personal relationships as opposed to my knowledge when the time comes.”

Draco can understand why Harry would want to go through the proper process, he supposes. The old Draco would have thought it all a big waste of time, but now he thinks he understands why taking something just because you can isn’t always the best way to approach life. Even if he would never admit it, he admires Harry for his instinctive desire to work for the titles he earns.

Draco takes the pause in conversation to read Harry’s form carefully. He tries to keep his expression smooth when he discovers the precise details of the attack on Harry and the spell aimed directly at his wand. It comes as little surprise to him that the damage sustained to Harry’s wand occurred when he was an Auror. Making a wand wilt isn’t the kind of magic a student flinging ill-judged spells around could accidentally pull off. It would take advanced, deliberate magic. Unfortunately, it doesn’t bode well for any chance of successful repair if the spell has infiltrated the core. 

“You can leave this with me,” Draco says, when he’s finished reading the form. “I won’t be able to make any proper assessment until I’ve done more reading and looked at the wand at the weekend.”

“I’ve managed to book a slot okay, then?” Harry shoots Draco a grin. “For that _one-to-one consultation_.”

Draco nods and pointedly ignores the way Harry makes _consultation_ sound like they’re going to spend Saturday fucking. In truth, he would clear his diary for far less than a wilting wand when it comes to Harry.

“Are you happy at Hogwarts?” Draco asks. He’s not sure why it’s important to him, but there is still a restless energy that buzzes and hums through the shop whenever Harry’s around. Draco knows a lot about moving from place to place and he supposes what he really wants to ask is _are you staying?_

“Very.” Harry contemplates Draco, as if he’s trying to work something out. “I always wanted to be an Auror, but after the war it was like a jacket that never fit right. No matter how much I kept adjusting it or trying to change things, I never felt comfortable in it. I hate what’s happening with my wand, but it gave me the push I needed to leave the Ministry.”

“Because you had to?”

“Because I had to.” Harry nods. “Having an unstable wand made being an Auror unsafe and McGonagall offered to let me work at Hogwarts on a temporary basis. That’s why my job’s so weird. They had to create a position for me that the school didn’t really need. I don’t think either of us thought I would end up staying, but like I said, sometimes life takes you by surprise.”

“It can do that,” Draco agrees. He thinks of the first conversation with Griffin and looks away from Harry’s steady gaze. He wishes he was better at knowing what Harry was thinking, when he gives Draco one of those unflinching looks. “I planned to live like a Muggle after the war.”

“Really?” Harry snorts. “I can’t see that suiting you for one minute. Magic, Malfoy. It’s in your blood. Not in the bollocks way your old lot used to think about it, but because of _you_ , not your lineage. It’s not good to suppress that. Or other things.”

“You think there are other things I’m suppressing?” Draco raises his eyebrows at Harry.

“Aren’t there?” Harry gives Draco a quizzical look, before his expression clears. “Perhaps not.”

“Do you think I’m ashamed of it?” Draco keeps a careful eye on Harry whose expression, for once, gives nothing away.

“The past or the present?” Harry’s voice is calm and steady and there’s no edge of judgment.

“Both.” Draco sits back in his seat and presses his fingers together as he watches Harry. “It’s interesting that you have to clarify what I mean. There are so many options, aren’t there?”

“I’m not concerned about the past,” Harry replies. “I know every last bit of it. I’m more interested in who you are now.” He pauses, clearly picking his words carefully. “I’ve never known you to be with anyone. Not seriously.”

“Perhaps I haven’t found someone challenging enough,” Draco says.

“It’s not a game of chess, Malfoy.” Harry rolls his eyes.

“Isn’t it?” Draco shuffles his forms, to indicate the conversation is over. Nosy-parker Potter isn’t half interested in Draco’s love life. He might not have had boyfriends, but that doesn’t mean he’s _ashamed_. Unfortunately for Draco, the bigger concern is that the one person he wants to be with is standing right in front of him and blissfully unaware of any of Draco’s inner turmoil. “I should have everything I need. Unless I hear otherwise, I’ll expect you on Saturday at nine o’clock sharp.”

“So much for a lie-in,” Harry mutters, as if he’s ever had a lie-in in his life. “See you Saturday.”

Draco watches Harry leave and he settles in his seat when the door closes behind him with a sigh of relief.

When Harry’s around the shop fills with a strange, crackling tension that fizzes and spits between them. Under normal circumstances there’s nothing Draco enjoys more than some verbal sparring, but it’s impossible to enjoy Harry’s company when the weight of their Quick-Match correspondence pushes a barrier between them. What started out as a bit of fun has become increasingly complicated and Draco isn’t sure he can take keeping the identity of Jean-Paul a secret from Harry for much longer. On the other hand, as much as he complains about Quick-Match, Draco can no longer imagine a single day without a conversation with Harry in it. 

“You’re in trouble, Draco Malfoy,” Draco tells the empty shop. “You’re in real trouble.”

*

The night draws in even quicker than usual, a sure sign that winter has settled in. Without the bustle of students and staff, Hogsmeade can get eerily quiet and, not for the first time, Draco wishes he had something—or someone—to keep himself occupied during the evening. Despite knowing he really shouldn’t, Draco opens his Passion Parchment and flips the pages back to the very first conversation with Griffin.

_Hello! Griffin would like to send you a message. If you would like to accept the message, please flick your Quick-Match Quill up. If you do not want to accept the message, please flick your Quick-Match Quill down._

_Thank you for being part of the Quick-Match community. Don’t forget to upgrade your account for just one more Galleon a week to receive extra magical benefits!_

_Griffin and Jean-Paul are now connected._

_Please adhere to our terms and conditions of service at all times at all times._

**Griffin:** Any idea what the terms and conditions say?

 **Jean-Paul:** Not a clue.

 **Griffin:** Me neither. Is Jean-Paul your real name?

 **Jean-Paul:** Is Griffin _your_ real name?

 **Griffin:** Nope. Why Jean-Paul?

 **Jean-Paul:** A friend from Paris. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me using his name. Why Griffin?

 **Griffin:** I like Griffins. They’re cool.

 **Jean-Paul:** That’s inane.

 **Griffin:** Are you always this prickly?

 **Jean-Paul:**. If someone names themselves after _Griffins_ , yes.

 **Griffin:** Why are you on Quick-Match if you’re just going to be rude to people?

 **Jean-Paul:** Because I love being sent unsolicited Evaporates and having dull conversations with strangers. What about you?

 **Griffin:** Ha ha. There’s a lot of that on here. I don’t mind Evaporates, when I ask for them.

 **Jean-Paul:** Circe, you must be hard up. Do you ask for them often?

 **Griffin:** Sometimes. I don’t send them half as much.

 **Jean-Paul:** Something to be ashamed of?

 **Griffin:** Hardly. Do you need confirmation?

The memory of the moment comes flooding back to Draco and he groans at his own stupidity. He can remember licking his lips, deciding _time to make things more interesting_ and encouraging the picture that changed everything. He should have known better. He’s always prone to idiotic decisions when he’s halfway through a bottle of Malbec, bored and horny.

 **Jean-Paul:** You might as well. I don’t have anything better to do this evening.

 **Griffin:** Are you always this charming?

 **Jean-Paul:** Are you always this annoying? If you’re as bored as I am, I’d warrant you don’t have anything better to do either. Scared, Griffin?

 **Griffin:** As if. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. I hope you’re better at dirty talk than this. I don’t make a habit of getting off with pretentious twats who give themselves French names on a matchmaking service just to sound clever.

 **Jean-Paul:** Did it ever occur to you I might actually be French?

 **Griffin:** No. Are you?

 **Jean-Paul:** No.

 **Griffin:** Do you ever talk dirty in French?

 **Jean-Paul:** Why? Can you speak it?

 **Griffin:** Nope.

 **Jean-Paul:** Then no. I do just fine in English. When it comes to talking dirty, I can hold my own.

 **Griffin:** Interesting turn of phrase…

 **Jean-Paul:** Oh fuck off. Where’s this Evaporate?

 **Griffin:** I expect one in return. Don’t try to fob me off with a picture of a limp flobberworm.

 **Jean-Paul:** Based on our conversation so far, I’m not expecting much more than that from your Evaporate.

_Griffin has sent you an Evaporate. Congratulations from the team at Quick-Match!_

**Jean-Paul:** Why the fuck do they send congratulations?

 **Griffin:** They probably thought we’d use their dating service for sharing pictures of something other than our dicks.

 **Jean-Paul:** More fool them. Give me a minute.

_Jean-Paul has sent you an Evaporate. Congratulations from the team at Quick-Match!_

Draco closes the book, the guilt he’s been feeling of late worming through him. At the start he prided himself on being able to keep his own identity a secret. Griffin has never suggested meeting in person or even so much as a Fire Call. Draco expects Harry’s exercising understandable caution given his fame and position. He probably didn’t imagine anybody would have been looking closely enough to recognise his tattoo. Not that Draco was looking closely. Not much, anyway.

The more Draco sees Harry in the flesh, the harder it is to keep up the pretence of not knowing exactly who Griffin is. Even small talk feels like one more lie piled on an already steaming pile of them. With his guilt intensifying, Draco knows this nonsense has to end. Although he doesn’t feel too bad about his early evasiveness—Harry is clearly as reckless on Quick-Match as he is on the Quidditch pitch—their conversations in person and as _Griffin_ and _Jean-Paul_ have increasingly been erring into more personal territory.

Draco is fine hiding behind the mask of Jean-Paul when they’re sharing sweaty pictures and parchment fucking or whatever you call it, but when hopes and dreams begin to get involved the whole thing leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

With a groan, Draco closes the Passion Parchment and ignores the vibrating Quick-Match Quill that suggests an onslaught of incoming messages.

*

Of all the ill-advised ways to begin a dreary Thursday, an enthusiastic wank over Harry Potter’s most recent dick pics must be the most ill-advised of them all.

With a growl of annoyance, Draco turns on the shower to wash away the sleaziness of it all. He shoves his head under the steady stream of water, relieved that the noise calms the vibrations from his Quick-Match Quill.

After he’s scrubbed his skin sufficiently to remove the last remnants of Potter-related debauchery, Draco dries off and pulls a face at himself in the mirror before dressing. He looks decent, a bit more flushed than usual admittedly, but otherwise relatively unruffled. He makes sure his shirt is crisp and ironed to perfection and buttons up his waistcoat. He gives himself a last once-over to check there’s nothing in his outer appearance that reflects his inner turmoil. He made the mistake of scheduling a quick meeting with Harry to run a diagnostic spell on his wand, largely to check if his instincts are correct. The last thing he needs is for the ever astute Harry to pick up on the havoc his cock has been causing Draco of late. 

Draco’s Quick-Match Quill vibrates eagerly on his bedside table, the feathers giving an excited ruffle like peacock trying to get his attention. With a scowl of annoyance, Draco strides to his desk and taps his Passion Parchment with his wand to let the quill scribble out several incoming messages in an untidy hand.

 **Griffin:** Morning! I’m knackered. I’ve been up for a meeting since five, I couldn’t sleep. The Evaporates helped. Something to get up for, so to speak.

 **Griffin:** Where do you work? I don’t think you ever said.

Draco rolls his eyes at the _something to get up for_. Harry has the cheesiest lines Draco has ever had the misfortune to hear in his life.

Without sending a reply, Draco leaves his bedroom and makes his way downstairs to grind his coffee beans, determined to push Harry to the back of his mind once and for all.

*

The flaw in Draco’s plan rears his insufferably handsome head approximately thirty minutes later. 

“Sorry I’m late. The Bowtruckles have been having a go at the Hippogriffs.” Harry drops into a nearby seat, lounging comfortably with the insolent charm of someone who is completely at ease with keeping everybody waiting. Unlike the robes Hogwarts staff usually wear, he’s in jeans and a jumper again. The jumper has a couple of leaves caught in the wool and what appears to be a Bowtruckle, nestling close to the collar. “The little ones have been trying to eat the leaves off the Wiggentree. They’re only young, they don’t know any better. I noticed a kerfuffle when I was flying over the Forest and thought I should sort it out.”

“The _Forbidden_ Forest,” Draco says, pointedly, not that he cares. “I suppose we should be thanking you for your continued service to all creatures great and small.”

“You sound just like McGonagall.” Harry grins. “I thought she was going to have kittens. I decided it was best not to mention I was flying a Hippogriff at the time.”

“Best not,” Draco agrees. It still seems strange exchanging easy small talk with Potter, despite the countless conversations on Quick-Match and their last meeting in the shop. “Why the fuck can’t you just fly a broom like a normal person?”

Harry responds with an amused chuckle and Draco tries to ignore the pleasant heat that travels down his spine. He clenches his lips together and tries not to study Potter’s large hands too closely or think about how good they always look in Evaporates. It’s bloody typical that Harry would be able to have a wank, fly a Hippogriff and put an end to Magical Creature unrest before nine o’clock. Draco’s barely had time to finish his coffee.

“I noticed this little fella hitched a ride on my way here,” Harry murmurs. He gives the Bowtruckle on his jumper a gentle pat with his finger. “I almost squashed him.”

“I hope it doesn’t gouge your eyes out,” Draco snickers.

“He wouldn’t do that, would you pal?” Harry lets the Bowtruckle move onto his palm, where it seems quite content to nestle.

Draco swallows. “What were you doing in the Forest anyway?”

Harry shrugs evasively and gives Draco a crooked smile. “I have my secrets and I’m sure you have yours.”

“Of course I don’t,” Draco snaps. Guilt worms through him at the thought of the months of messages exchanged between Griffin and _Jean-Paul_. The heat in his cheeks intensifies as his morning activities come back to him in a rush. “What secrets would I possibly have?”

“If I knew the answer to that, they wouldn’t be secrets,” Harry replies.

Draco rolls his eyes. “I couldn’t care less what you do, I was just trying to make conversation.”

With a huff of aggravation, Draco gets back to work and studiously ignores Harry gently stroking his Bowtruckle until it’s practically purring.

*

It takes a good half an hour for Draco to run further diagnostics on Harry’s wand and he has the sinking feeling the spell damage has gone right through to the core, although he hopes he’s wrong. He glances at Harry—doodling broomsticks on his notebook as the Bowtruckle snoozes on his jumper—and looks away quickly when his heart quickens. Cursing himself and his own idiocy, Draco tries to focus but his concentration drifts as his mind turns to other things.

It seems like a lifetime ago that Draco announced this year was going to be his for the taking. _No more bad men, bad food or bad booze_ , he had declared just before midnight on New Year’s Eve. The sun had barely come up on the first day of the year and he’d already broken two of his resolutions by eating the last remaining chocolates off the Christmas tree and having a flat glass of Asti Spumante for breakfast. Now that he’s been tasked with fixing Harry’s wonky wand, the situation has grown even more dire, as evidenced by the fact he’s reliant on Evaporates from Harry Potter for sexual gratification. It’s so pathetic, he could scream.

“Sickle for them.”

“Excuse me?” Draco blinks at Harry, now on his feet and stretching in a way that shows off every inch of his body. “Sickle for what?”

“Your thoughts.” Harry stops stretching, shoves his hands in his pockets and shoots Draco a broad smile. “You stopped working on my wand ages ago.”

“I was thinking,” Draco snaps. He makes his way to the coffee machine, all too aware of Harry by his side. “What’s next for today, after going to spend more time with those Bowtruckles of yours?”

“Who’s to say.” Harry helps himself to a coffee, adding a generous glug of cream and a spoon of sugar, much to Draco’s distaste. “I’ve got some correspondence to catch up on. With a friend.”

“Oh.” Draco sips his coffee, wincing as it burns his throat. “I didn’t know Puffskeins could write letters.”

“Ha ha.” Harry rolls his eyes. He lowers his voice, giving it a rich, sultry quality that makes Draco’s fingers curl into a fist in his effort to show how unaffected he is. “If you must know, I’m sort of seeing someone.”

“Is that so?” Draco tries to keep his expression implacable. The bloody nerve of it. Harry might have informed him they were _seeing_ one another. Unless he’s referring to someone other than Jean-Paul, of course. The thought makes jealousy coil deep in the pit of Draco’s stomach. “Which lucky witch or wizard has the misfortune of being on the receiving end of your clumsy affections this time?”

“Wizard.” Harry takes a drink of his coffee, looking around the shop. “You wouldn’t know him.”

“I might,” Draco replies. “I know most of the crowd that go to The Purple Niffler and only a handful of them are desperate enough to go out with you.”

“More than a handful, I’d say. It’s amazing what you find out about people on the grapevine in a place like that.” Harry drains the last of his coffee and reaches around Draco to pocket his wand. “I take it we’re all done for the day?”

“Yes.” Draco swallows back the desire that pulses through him at Harry’s proximity. He really does smell divine. “I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow, try not to—”

“—overuse my wand. I know, I know. That spare you gave me doesn’t like me at all. If it doesn’t stop being a twat, I’ll swap it for a different one.”

“It’s not like you to give up on something just because it’s difficult,” Draco points out.

“I suppose. I’ll just have to keep persevering.” Harry pulls a face and helps himself to a chocolate digestive before opening the door to the shop. “See you on Saturday, Malfoy. Have a nice day polishing your wands.”

With a whistle, he leaves the shop and Draco is left staring after him, wondering not for the first time, how Potter _always_ gets under his skin.

*

Draco’s Friday lunchtime stroll around Hogsmeade is completely ruined by the sight of a magical hologram of Harry, diving and twisting through the air in his Quidditch leathers. He’s got half a mind to tell McGonagall that it’s obscene to let a member of staff wear leathers that tight for promotional purposes. The Hogwarts Alumni Quidditch Friendly might be the star of the end of term holiday festivities, but that’s no excuse.

Aside from the irritating image of a triumphant Harry holding the Snitch aloft, Draco’s quite excited about the event. Some big names are returning for the occasion and even if Quidditch at Hogwarts brings back a lot of complicated memories for Draco, time and distance have helped. Besides, gone are the days when Draco would quibble over playing favourites or expect to be at the centre of such a high-profile event. He knows how fortunate he is to be accepted as a retailer at Hogsmeade.

Draco tightens his cloak and cups a mug of hot chocolate in his gloved hands, watching as people bustle around him doing their shopping. Madam Puddifoots serves awful coffee, but the hot chocolate beats any of Diagon Alley’s offerings hands down. On wintery Fridays he treats himself to a warm, rich mug of hot chocolate and cream. As the only one mad enough to sit outside in the freezing weather, he has the small courtyard to himself and doesn’t have to put up with the twee décor inside. He can just sit back, relax and watch the world go by.

As he sips his hot chocolate, Draco’s mind flickers to his upcoming meeting at Hogwarts. It’s strange, thinking about going back. If he tries hard enough, he can picture his younger self sitting close to the Great Lake and listening to the waves lapping against the banks, straining for the sound of Merepeople singing. With a sigh, Draco looks up at the white sky which already looks as though it’s preparing for a snowstorm.

A familiar figure in the distance catches Draco’s eye, striding purposefully in the direction of his shop.

“What are you up to, Harry?” He murmurs.

After watching Harry for a moment longer, Draco shakes himself and opens his book.

Whatever Harry wants, it can wait.

*

“It looks like snow.” Harry’s familiar voice startles Draco. “Were you busy?”

“Yes.” Draco sits back in his chair and rubs his eyes. He was so engrossed in his book, the story combined with the warmth of the heating charms almost led him to forget where he was. “Not that you strike me as the sort to care about interrupting people.”

“Not a lot,” Harry agrees. He pulls up a chair at Draco’s table and signals for a drink. “Want another one?”

“I suppose one more couldn’t hurt.” Draco takes a quick look at his watch. He was due to open the shop five minutes ago, but considering he only has himself to answer to, he supposes he can extend his lunch for a short while longer. It’s nearly the holidays after all. When the waitress brings them both a mug of hot chocolate, he looks at Harry’s curiously. “How do they know what you want?”

“Because I come here all the time.” Harry shrugs. “Best hot chocolate in the UK if you ask me. Miles better than the stuff in Diagon. Rubbish coffee, though.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Even now it surprises Draco when he finds common ground with Harry. A shared opinion about hot chocolate and coffee feels like a small victory.

“Are you coming to the Quidditch match?” Harry asks.

“Yes. I got my ticket last weekend.” Draco gestures in the vague direction of the hologram that swoops and dips around Hogsmeade. “Are you responsible for this?”

“As if.” Harry snorts and has the decency to sound faintly embarrassed. “It’s just a bit of fun. You know I hate stuff like that.”

“Do I?” Draco does, he supposes. He’s not close to Harry—Evaporates, Quick-Match and wilting wands aside—but he knows enough to understand that Harry isn’t the showy sort. “Wood’s coming back for the match.”

“Yeah.” Harry takes a sip of his hot chocolate. “Thanks for reminding me I’ve slept with half the team.”

“That’s right!” Draco crows. “Weasley’s coming back too, isn’t she? I _do_ hope it doesn’t ruin your concentration.”

“I bet you do.” Harry rolls his eyes. He picks a marshmallow out of the glass, licking the gooey stickiness from his thumb in a way that should be indecent. “I was surprised you didn’t push harder to get on the team. You could have played. You’ve always been good at Quidditch.”

“Not that good.” Draco gives Harry a curious look, surprised he would care. “Anyway, if you and Wood end up falling off your brooms during a lover’s tiff, I might still get the chance.”

“Unlikely.” Harry laughs under his breath. “Last I heard, he was shagging one of the Beaters from the Lithuanian national team.” He seems relaxed and totally unbothered about Oliver Wood’s love life, which pleases Draco no end. “Anyway, I’ve already told you I’m seeing someone.”

“That’s right.” Draco’s heart quickens and he focuses on his hot chocolate instead of Harry. “What’s he like?”

“Unexpected.” Harry laughs and when Draco looks up, he’s surprised to see how bright and expressive Harry looks when he’s talking about Jean-Paul. “He keeps things interesting. I like that.”

“Does this mystery man have a name?” Part of Draco wants to hear Harry say it because there’s part of him that still doesn’t believe he has the power to make Harry look so unabashedly happy.

“You’d be surprised how tricky that information is to get out of someone.” Harry holds Draco’s gaze, his lips tipping into another smile. “It’s complicated.” He drains the rest of his hot chocolate and gets to his feet. “I’d better be off.”

“Me too.” Draco checks the time and winces, realising he’s allowed his lunch hour to run over substantially. He stands and for some godforsaken reason holds his hand out for shaking. “Until tomorrow, then.”

“Yeah. Until tomorrow.” Harry takes Draco’s offered hand and holds on for a beat too long. “Hey, Malfoy?”

“Yes?”

“You speak French, don’t you?”

“Fluently. German too. Why?”

“Just wondering.” Harry leans in close enough that his hot, sweet breath tickles the shell of Draco’s ear. “The person I’m seeing spent time in Paris. There are a few things I wouldn’t mind learning how to say to him.”

“What kind of things?” Draco asks a little breathlessly. He meets Harry’s gaze and tries not to react to the heat behind his eyes. “I’m not going to teach you how to say anything like _that_. Look it up.”

“Boring.” Harry pulls a face. “You’ll just have to tell me more about Paris, then. Perhaps it might give me some ideas.”

“It sounds like the last thing you need is ideas,” Draco mutters. He picks up his book and remembers seeing Harry when he first sat down, heading towards the shop. “Were you looking for me earlier?”

“Oh, I wanted to check something.” Harry waves a dismissive hand. “It doesn’t matter, I’m all set now. Bon voyage, Malfoy.”

Harry disappears off into the crowds before Draco has a chance to yell after him _it’s au revoir, you idiot_ which is disappointing to say the least.

*

At around ten that evening, Draco’s Quick-Match Quill vibrates eagerly which is a sure sign of trouble. With a sigh, Draco taps the Passion Parchment which flips open to the next blank page.

 **Griffin:** I’m having a shitty evening. I thought about going to The Purple Niffler, but I’m knackered and I have to work tomorrow.

 **Griffin:** Do you think we’d recognise each other, if we both went there on the same night?

Draco winces, because he can’t exactly answer that truthfully. He also can’t help but be insulted at being described as _work_. So much for the fledgling camaraderie he thought had developed between them this week. He ponders Harry’s question for a moment before responding.

 **Jean-Paul:** Perhaps we already know one another. You remind me of someone I knew at school.

 **Griffin:** Oh yeah? What was he like?

 **Jean-Paul:** Annoying.

 **Griffin:** Have you always been this bad at flirting?

 **Jean-Paul:** Aren’t we a bit beyond that?

 **Griffin:** I like flirting. Do you get off on it?

 **Jean-Paul:** I doubt anyone gets off on your flirting.

 **Griffin:** Not that. The strangers thing. Do you think it would ruin everything if we met?

Draco is fairly certain it wouldn’t go brilliantly, not that he can say as much.

 **Jean-Paul:** I like to keep an air of mystery.

 **Griffin:** Got it. Well, if that’s what floats your boat, I suppose…

 **Jean-Paul:** Why are you having such a shitty night?

 **Griffin:** If I told you that, we might not be strangers anymore. I wouldn’t want to say anything that might compromise your wanky air of mystery.

 **Griffin:** Did you like this bloke at school?

Draco pauses, wondering how to answer the question. It would be a lie to say he _liked_ Harry, when he spent most of his time professing how much he loathed him. Still, he’s had a long, hot summer and the benefit of hindsight to realise he might have protested a little too much. Nobody in Draco’s life has ever challenged him quite the way Harry has. The one upside to chatting to Harry through an anonymous dating service is that Draco can at least be honest about it on Quick-Match. He can say things to Griffin he’s not sure he would ever be able to say to Harry’s face.

 **Jean-Paul:** It’s complicated. He was always…unattainable.

 **Griffin:** I didn’t ask if he liked you.

 **Jean-Paul:** I liked him more than I would be willing to admit if he ever asked me the same question.

 **Jean-Paul:** I was different then. I could be unkind. There were things I did and said that I regret. I’d rather forget them.

 **Griffin:** Do you think forgetting fixes anything?

 **Jean-Paul:** Probably not. I tried, for a very long time. I regret that, too.

There’s a recklessness to Draco’s statement that makes his heart quicken and his palms clammy. He knows that Harry—Griffin—is blissfully unaware of Jean-Paul’s real identity, but telling the truth still makes Draco feel raw and exposed.

 **Griffin:** It does sound complicated. Do you see much of him anymore?

 **Jean-Paul:** Here and there. We don’t exactly have the same friends, but you know how small the wizarding world can feel after a while.

 **Griffin:** Yeah. Would you still want to go there now if he was interested?

 **Jean-Paul:** Perhaps. Yes.

 **Griffin:** What would you want him to do to you?

Draco runs his tongue over his lips, his mouth dry. Part of him is offended that Harry would even be interested in hearing about Draco—or Jean-Paul—with somebody else. The thought of having to listen to Harry talking about another witch or wizard burns through him, the hot, jealous craving for Harry to want _him_ overwhelming. Perhaps Potter was right about wands being like wizards. He hates feeling like one of the discarded spares.

 **Jean-Paul:** Why the fuck do you want to know?

 **Griffin:** Because it makes me horny thinking about you and this complicated bloke of yours.

 **Jean-Paul:** Circe, you’re so peculiar. What are you planning to do while I fantasise about someone else?

 **Griffin:** Wank, probably. Don’t worry, I’ll lie back, close my eyes and pretend you’re talking about me.

The fact Draco literally is talking about Harry makes him hot all over. For a fleeting moment he allows himself to imagine that Harry knows too, and this is just part of an elaborate game. The thought fades as quickly as it arises. Draco stopped believing in miracles a long time ago.

 **Jean-Paul:** It might be difficult to keep up if your eyes are closed.

 **Griffin:** I’ve got audio.

Draco stares at his Passion Parchment. Blue sapphire leather, crisp, thick parchment and an exquisite high-response quill. Draco might not have wanted to join a matchmaking service in the first place, but once he finally decided to sign up, he made sure he had the most expensive package. Nobody mentioned anything about _audio_.

 **Jean-Paul:** How in the blazes did you get that?

 **Griffin:** Magic. Obviously.

Draco grits his teeth. Potter is so infuriating, he could scream. He should have known Harry would be wanking to Draco’s messages in surround sound, while Draco has been scribbling in his Passion Parchment like some kind of magical imbecile.

 **Jean-Paul:** I hate you.

 **Griffin:** Thanks. Look, I’ve had a stupid, shit evening. Indulge me?

 **Jean-Paul:** Fine. Whose voice do you use?

 **Griffin:** Does it matter? Just someone I know.

Draco pulls a face, hoping to fuck it isn’t Weasley. He realises he still hasn’t got to the bottom of why Harry’s evening has been so awful and wonders if it’s anything to do with his wand. The reminder that they’re going to spend the weekend working together is both welcome and not. Draco is already buzzing with anticipation, eager to see Harry again in the flesh. However, the sinking realisation that the sooner he breaks all contact with Griffin or tells Harry the truth, the better. His Quick-Match Quill vibrates and bounds towards the open notebook.

 **Griffin:** Let’s pretend this bloke of yours turns up at your office, wherever that is. This air of mystery is getting a bit boring. I like a visual aid.

 **Jean-Paul:** Were the multiple pictures of my cock not enough for you?

 **Griffin:** They help. So, imagine this old school chum turns up wherever you like. Tell me what you want him to do.

 **Jean-Paul:** We’ve already established he wasn’t my chum. Far from it.

 **Griffin:** You’re very good at trying to weasel out of telling me what you like in bed.

 **Jean-Paul:** You should have some idea by now.

 **Griffin:** This time I want specifics.

Draco heaves a sigh. Knowing Harry, he won’t shut up until Draco gives him something juicy. It’s not as though he doesn’t have enough ideas about the things he wants to do with Harry, but Draco also knows it’s going to make Saturday as awkward as hell. Resolving that this will absolutely be the last time he has a conversation of this nature with Griffin, Draco supposes he should at least make it a good one. He’s always been able to use the anonymity of Quick-Match to tell Griffin things he knows he would never have the guts to say to Harry in person. He might as well make the most of it.

 **Jean-Paul:** I suppose I would want him to kiss me.

 **Griffin:** Where?

 **Jean-Paul:** On the _mouth_ obviously. Where the fuck do you usually kiss people?

 **Griffin:** Do you really need me to answer that?

 **Jean-Paul:** Clearly, I take more warming up than you. Let’s start with the basics, shall we?

 **Griffin:** Fine. He kisses you on the mouth. Hard or soft?

 **Jean-Paul:** He can be unpredictable. Hard, I expect. He’s not my grandmother. Besides, he has a tendency to charge into things.

Draco licks his lips, closing his eyes for a minute to imagine what a kiss with Harry might feel like. He picks up his quill and continues writing.

 **Jean-Paul:** The first kiss is confident. He knows what he’s doing.

 **Griffin:** Mmm, I bet he does. He sounds like he’d be great in bed if you ask me.

 **Jean-Paul:** Are you wanking already?

 **Griffin:** So what if I am? You’d better hurry up and get to the other stuff before I lose my hard-on. What does he do next?

 **Jean-Paul:** There’s a bookcase in my office. I’ve always wanted someone to kiss me up against it, rough and hot.

 **Griffin:** Do books get you off? That’s a bit kinky. I bet it’s the leather.

 **Jean-Paul:** Shut up. Books don’t get me off, it’s just something I’ve thought about when he comes into work. Is this my fantasy or yours?

 **Griffin:** I don’t know anymore. I like this rough kissing idea. I bet that gets you hard, or it should if he knows what he’s doing. 

**Jean-Paul:** Probably. 

**Griffin:** You want him to get on his knees and suck you off, don’t you? Right there, with half your clothes on because you can’t wait to get upstairs.

Draco closes his eyes and tries to steady his breathing. He slides his hand down his stomach and palms himself through his trousers, before picking up his quill again. Unlike some people, he obviously hasn’t learned all the tricks of making magical wanking a satisfying experience. Potter probably dictates to his quill too, through those non-verbal spells of his.

 **Jean-Paul:** Merlin, yes. I want him on his knees then I want him to fuck me.

 **Griffin:** Right there in your office?

 **Jean-Paul:** I don’t know. Maybe.

 **Griffin:** He must get you worked up if you can’t wait to Apparate home.

 **Jean-Paul:** He does. I don’t want to talk about him anymore. Tell me what you would do to me, if we met.

 **Griffin:** Every last filthy thing?

Draco supposes he might as well throw caution to the wind. It’s already late, but it’s not as if they haven’t done this countless times before and Griffin—Harry—seems to want distracting from a bad evening as much as Draco needs distracting from his current predicament. As cheesy as his lines are, Harry really _is_ good at talking dirty. He’s bold and unafraid, sensual and has the most creative ideas. He’s always far better at it than Draco, who is constantly inhibited by being so unused to articulating innermost needs and desires. This always works better when it’s Draco bouncing off Harry, as opposed to the other way round.

Draco unbuckles his belt and unbuttons his trousers, picking up the quill once more.

 **Jean-Paul:** Yes. Every last filthy thing.

*

On Saturday morning, Draco makes his way to the shop clutching a ham and cheese toastie and a hot chocolate from Madam Puddifoots. Despite it being completely inappropriate breakfast fare, he woke up with a niggling headache that hasn’t dissipated, and he needed the walk. After a long night on Quick-Match with Griffin, Draco worked well into the early hours of the morning trying to find a fix for Harry’s wand. Depressingly, his research proved futile and he suspects the time they spend together is going to be far shorter than Harry was likely expecting. The answer seems quite simple. The damage to the wand is irreparable and fixing it would take a miracle.

With a frown, Draco opens the door to the shop. His headache intensifies when he notices Harry sitting behind the till, turning Draco’s Passion Parchment booklet over in his hands. Thank fuck those things don’t open to anyone but their owners.

“You can’t break into someone’s shop and start snooping around.”

“I know that.” Harry rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t snooping. We have a meeting and I saw the light on. I assumed you were upstairs, so I let myself in.”

“That’s _breaking in_.” Draco glares at Harry, certain his headache is getting worse by the second. “They put people in Azkaban for less. Have you been going through my desk drawers?”

“Not even I’m that nosy.” Harry holds up the book. “You left this out. I didn’t know you used Quick-Match.”

“Do you use it?” Draco tries to feign surprise and isn’t sure he manages it. He’s tired. Very, very tired of pretending. “I can’t imagine the great Harry Potter needs a matchmaking service.”

“I wouldn’t have thought it would be your thing either,” Harry muses. “I hope it’s not going to distract you from sorting out my wand.”

“Of course not,” Draco snaps. He swallows. The ability to say anything further seems to have temporarily left him, along with his capacity for any kind of clear thinking. He’s got the strangest feeling Harry meant his statement to sound every bit as suggestive as it does. “Although I don’t think it’s going to take very long, unfortunately.”

“Why?” Harry puts the Passion Parchment down and gets to his feet with a frown. “Can’t you repair it?”

“Not without the phoenix who provided the feather for the core.” Draco expects Harry to look as crestfallen as he is, after the hours he spent poring over books for an alternative solution. “What are you looking so happy about?”

“What if I said I could get you the phoenix?” Harry moves towards Draco, his eyes shining. 

“Well, that would be different.” A tendril of hope flares in Draco’s belly. As much as he would like to pretend he couldn’t care less about Harry’s blasted wand, the circles under his eyes and the hours of research would say different. “That’s the sort of information that would have been useful to put on the form, you idiot.”

“Fuck the form.” Harry whoops with delight. “Good old Fawkes to the rescue again.”

Draco rubs his throbbing temples, trying to understand what’s happening. Naturally, Harry Potter, friend to Bowtruckles and Hippogriffs, would be on first name terms with the phoenix who supplied the feather for his wand core. 

“The spell has begun to eat away at the core. The only thing that can stop a phoenix feather used in a wand core from being destroyed by magic like that is—”

“Tears from the phoenix the feather belongs to.” Harry finishes Draco’s sentence, which is pretty rude of him. Harry didn’t spend three years at the Sorbonne and another three years getting yelled at by Mia Gregorovitch. The least he could do is let Draco do his bloody job. “I’m familiar with the concept.”

“Why did you bother paying me then?” Draco replies, grouchily. He eyes Harry, who moves a little closer to Draco. “Although it will still take some work to restore your wand back to working order. It’s a delicate process. You can’t just rip a wand apart and put it back together again.”

“Which is why I need you,” Harry replies. He rubs his head, laughing to himself. “I was up far too late last night, but that news has helped no end.”

Draco sniffs, thinking it’s very unfair that Harry looks as good as he does on a few hours’ sleep. Not to mention he probably started the morning flying wild Abraxans or swimming with Merepeople in the Great Lake.

“I’m so happy, I could kiss you,” Harry says. He doesn’t sound like he’s joking, his voice rich and warm. It’s a different tone to anything Draco has heard from Harry before and it sends shivers travelling down the length of his spine. 

Draco is unusually lost for words and he stumbles back against the nearest bookcase as Harry moves a little closer, an unmistakable question in his gaze.

“Go on, then.” Draco finds his voice at last, the usual smoothness replaced by rough edges as his heart _thud, thuds_ in his chest. If there’s ever a time to dare to believe in miracles, to dare to hope, it’s now. “Do it.”

“ _Finally_.” With a groan, Harry pulls off his glasses and closes the distance between them in seconds. 

Draco doesn’t get a chance to ask what Harry means by _finally_ , because all coherent thought is chased from his brain when their lips meet. 

The tension that’s been building for weeks and months finally snaps, and Draco gives himself over completely to the warmth of Harry’s kiss. He falls back against the bookcase, the spines of the books digging into his back as Harry kisses him soundly. Harry is such a good kisser, it makes Draco’s head spin. His mouth is hot and searching, his hand cupping the back of Draco’s neck, urging him closer. With a low groan, Draco fists his hand into Harry’s jumper and deepens the kiss. He wants to show Harry that of all the things Draco has to be ashamed of, this isn’t one of them. Despite the heat that travels through his body and the hardness of Harry’s body against his own, Draco knows he can’t take this where he wants it to go without telling the truth. As much as he wants to keep kissing Harry and never stop, Draco pushes Harry back with a firm shove that nearly sends him toppling backwards.

“Stop.” Draco holds up a hand, trying to catch his breath. He looks up to see the hurt and confusion etched over Harry’s face and his heart twists at the sight of it. “We can’t, not until I tell you—”

Draco stops. Harry doesn’t say a word, but the wounded expression eases a little. He crosses his arms and nods, as if Draco should continue. He looks divine; rumpled and well-kissed.

“Jean-Paul,” Draco says at last. His voice falters and he waits for Harry’s look of horror. “I’m Jean-Paul.”

“No shit.” Harry laughs and moves towards Draco again, running a hand down Draco’s arm. His voice dips into a low, warm cadence. “Was that why you stopped everything when it was just getting interesting?”

Draco stares at Harry, half wondering if he misheard. Harry _knew_. Harry knew all along and he’s still here, kissing Draco like it’s something he’s been eager to do for all this time.

“I—” Draco stops. He can’t seem to form proper words with Harry this close, his thoughts swimming. He leans back against the bookcase and meets Harry’s steady gaze. “Perhaps we should talk.”

“All we’ve ever done is talk,” Harry replies. “I’m really more a man of action.”

“I gathered.” Draco rolls his eyes. “Swimming in a freezing lake at six in the morning and flying Hippogriffs to save a few Bowtruckles.”

Harry looks into Draco’s eyes, an unmistakable heat behind his gaze. “Can I—?”

Draco answers by closing the distance between them and sinking into another blissful kiss. The weight of the last few months of agonising over what he should do lifts from him, rising like a phoenix from the ashes and disappearing into the clouds. He opens his mouth eagerly to Harry, pressing against him and holding him close. As the kiss deepens, Draco shifts their positions, so Harry is the one with his back pressed against the bookcase. He catches Harry’s lips in a searing kiss, their tongues sliding together, slick, hot and urgent. With a groan of pleasure, Draco slides his hand underneath Harry’s jumper and finds the buckle of his belt. The movement makes Harry hiss and buck closer to Draco. There’s a rough urgency to every movement, the clink of metal and the way Harry drops his head back and gasps for breath.

“I thought—” Harry is cut off by Draco sinking to his knees. 

“Changed my mind.” Draco breathlessly tugs Harry’s jeans down, practically salivating as Harry’s delicious cock springs free from his pants and trousers. “If that’s okay.”

“More than.” Harry’s voice is thick with arousal. “In fact, I applaud your spontaneity.”

“You’re so infuriating.” Draco slides his hands up Harry’s thighs. He pushes up his jumper and finds the phoenix tattoo, brushing his lips against it. He pulls back and watches as the wings flutter. The phoenix begins to move like a flame across Harry’s belly and over his shoulder, disappearing off out of sight. “You and your phoenixes.”

“Don’t be offended.” Harry laughs quietly. “She does that when I’m on my own, too. Perhaps it’s a privacy thing.”

“I’m not sure even magical tattoos are sentient, although anything is possible when it comes to you,” Draco replies. 

He’s not sure it’s fully sunk in that Harry _knows_. He knows and he’s still here, hard, wanting and not running off back to Hogwarts. All the times Draco refused to let himself hope come spinning back to him. Sinking to his knees is almost an act of reverence, his mouth eagerly seeking out Harry’s cock, determined to bring him to the height of pleasure. His heart sings and it seems as though Harry’s magic swells through the room. Draco has learned the art of magical empathy over six long years of training. He can feel every tick and hum of a wand, every flicker and pulse of magic. He usually needs to hold the wand, to try to gauge its mood, its core, its soul. With Harry, he just needs hot fingers pressed against damp, sweaty skin. The magic fills the room, every quiver and shake of it, the steady, solid heartbeat of Harry Potter’s magic occupying every corner of the shop.

“Windows,” Harry grunts. “The…fuck, this wand isn’t…”

Harry fumbles and something happens that plunges the shop into darkness. Draco isn’t sure if Harry has cast a particularly powerful _Nox_ or if his shop will ever recover, but he no longer cares. He only has himself to blame for giving the most stubborn wizard he knows the most stubborn wand wood. He never told Harry as much, but Gregorovitch always felt differently about Alder than Ollivander, whose notes indicated that Alder wands are best suited to someone with a different temperament to the wood itself. Draco always puzzled over the idea that a stubborn wand would do best with a more pliant owner. When he raised the question with Mia, she told Draco that her father’s perspective was different. _When you cast a light in a dark wood,_ she said, _it doesn’t mean it is no longer dark, but you can see because the light is its perfect compliment. It illuminates the way. That’s how Alder works. When matched with someone who possesses an unusual strength of character, unmatched courage of conviction, if the wand and owner learn to stop fighting one another they can prove to be an excellent match._

Draco pulls Harry closer, sliding his mouth over Harry’s cock. The darkness that surrounds them makes everything seem more illicit than before, their actions driven solely by touch, taste and smell. He mouths his way along the shaft of Harry’s cock and wonders if he chose Alder specifically for Harry because he liked the idea of two hot-headed forces coming together in an unexpected compliment to one another. He has no illusions that his own character is as strong as Harry’s, but it takes tenacity to change, to grit your teeth and look inwards, to the core, the heart of everything, and recognise that rotten things need to be removed. He supposes he likes the idea that two things that shouldn’t work together somehow just do.

“Draco.” Harry curls his fingers into Draco’s hair, his voice bringing him back to the moment. It’s a tether to the present. “Stop.”

“Why?” Draco slides back and looks up at Harry, a futile effort in the darkness of the store. “Don’t you want—?”

He can’t bear to finish the sentence. _Don’t you want me?_

“Yes. _Yes_.” Harry whispers a _Lumos_ and a steady light flickers and pulses between them. He reaches out his hand and tugs Draco to his feet, pressing urgent kisses on his face, his neck and tracing the beat of his pulse up to whisper in his ear. “I want you to fuck me. Can we go to your room?”

Draco doesn’t need asking twice, wrapping his arms around Harry and Apparating them without another word.

*

Draco’s glad of the light when Harry is stretched out on his bed, naked and hard. The sight of him sends a wave of desire crashing over Draco. There’s something so unexpectedly stormy about having sex with Harry. The stop and start, the push and pull, the hot, heavy force of it all. It’s like being caught in a gathering wind and travelling further into the eye of the storm. There’s so much he wants to ask, but he also doesn’t want to talk at all. Harry’s right. Talking can wait. Right now, Draco just wants to sink into the moment, to feel and taste and touch.

“Do you want…” Draco, despite his desire not to talk, has an equal desire for it to be so good Harry Potter never considers being with another man again. He realises he doesn’t know if Harry likes sex face to face, a good, arse-up fucking or—most likely, knowing Harry—magical acrobatics. He swallows back his uncharacteristic nerves and starts again. “Is there a way you like to do this?”

“I’m easy.” Harry palms himself slowly. “I know it’s not your first time on a broom, Malfoy. As weird as it might seem to you, I like it when you’re a snooty, condescending fucker. You don’t need to treat me carefully. I’m not sure being polite suits you. I’ll tell you if I’m not into it.”

Draco’s nerves are rapidly replaced by the mild irritation he feels whenever Harry displays another moment of intuition. If he wasn’t so skilled at Occlumency, he would swear Harry was reading his mind. He supposes there’s still a niggling doubt in his mind that Harry really wants this, but he concludes that Potter is clearly a few Gobstones short of a set] and decides if Harry wants Draco to be, well, _Draco_ , then he can certainly deliver on that.

“I didn’t expect arrogant wanker to be a kink of yours, Potter.”

“Yeah, well. Life’s full of surprises, _Malfoy_.”

Draco knows where he is, with _Potter_ and _Malfoy_. He’s so unused to sex meaning anything, so proficient at nights with strangers that blur into one that he almost can’t handle how important this moment with Harry seems. Reverting back to their usual verbal sparring resets something in Draco’s brain. Without further to-do, he stops Harry’s lazy stroking of himself in his tracks, knocking his hand away. He captures Harry’s lips in a fierce kiss, moving from his lips to taste the curve of his jaw, the beat of his pulse and the tang of the sweat that gathers on his collarbone. He savours every inch of Harry’s warm skin, before pulling back.

“Turn over.” Draco’s voice is mercifully crisp, clear and confident. Any questions fade away when Harry willingly complies, rolling onto his belly and raising his arse like an invitation. “Good.”

“I aim to please.” Harry still sounds far too amused for Draco’s liking and he’s tempted to give him a light swat for his cheek, but he suspects that spanking is something they should probably discuss beforehand. The last thing Draco needs is another conversation.

Draco gets his wand and casts a quick lubricating charm, sliding a slick finger in between the cheeks of Harry’s delectable backside. He doesn’t miss the way Harry arches his back like a Kneazle, or the soft huff that leaves his lips. _Interesting_. His confidence now fully returned, Draco breaches Harry’s body with a nudge of his finger, the slick of the lubricant making the passage easy despite the tight clench of Harry’s body. Biting back a groan, Draco presses his lips to the small of Harry’s back. With a grunt of pleasure, Draco adds a second finger and begins to fuck Harry with them.

In the past, Draco has had little time for finger-fucking, but there’s something about the way Harry responded to the first touch that tells him he should rethink that strategy. The beautiful curve and arch of Harry’s body and the sounds that fall from his lips spur Draco on. He wants to make Harry feel _good_ and there’s no doubt in his mind that this is something Harry enjoys. Draco knows men’s bodies. He knows the places he needs to find, the different spots that make a person lose their mind and the best way to read someone when they’re being kissed, touched and fucked.

Reading Harry’s body language is like holding a rare wand. He’s as expressive in bed as he is in every aspect of his life. He seems to have no qualms about showing his pleasure in a way that makes Draco harder than he’s been in a long time. There is, after all, nothing quite like being wanted. Draco takes his time fingering Harry, the filthy sound of lubricant and the slap of flesh against flesh filling the quiet room. It mingles with the ragged puffs of Harry’s breath and the low, crisp comments that Draco makes intermittently. There are the ones he says out loud: _spread your legs wider; don’t move; tell me how much you want my cock_. Then there are the ones that swim around his brain, like _you’re so fucking lovely_.

Watching Harry get more desperate is exquisite. Draco notices every curl of his fists in the sheets, every tremble and shiver, every time he bucks up and back. He drinks in the way Harry lowers his face into the pillow to muffle a cry of pleasure, when Draco curls his fingers just so. After watching Harry get more and more worked up, Draco can’t hold himself back any longer. With another quick spell, Draco slicks his aching cock and positions himself. With one hard push, he settles himself deep inside Harry and pauses to give them both a moment to breathe.

“ _Fuck_.” Harry lets out an _ungh_ of pleasure as he clenches around Draco, drawing a deep breath. “Merlin, that feels good.”

“How good?” Draco pushes his hand into Harry’s hair, pulling his head back a little. “Tell me how much you want to be fucked.”

“Gods, so much.” Harry sounds pleasingly undone already, grinding back into Draco. “Come _on_.”

Draco doesn’t need asking twice. He moves his hand from Harry’s hair, muttering another lubricating charm. He wraps a slick hand around Harry’s cock and thrusts into him. He takes his time, using Harry’s body to give himself every last bit of pleasure. He makes sure Harry doesn’t come, getting the position just right but making sure it doesn’t take him over the edge.

When Draco comes, heat sears through him and his body jerks deeper into Harry’s. When he’s recovered sufficiently, Draco slides out of Harry and nudges him onto his back. He moves quickly down Harry’s body and takes him into his mouth. His cock really is every bit as glorious as it looks in the Evaporates. The swollen end of his prick is salty with pre-come and Draco knows it won’t take long. Using every trick he’s acquired over the years, Draco brings Harry to a sudden, breathless climax, his hand twisting in Draco’s hair as he comes.

They both stretch out on the bed and catch their breath, staring at the blank, white ceiling. Draco’s heart thrums in his chest and he tries to gather his racing thoughts.

“Let’s talk later.” Harry sounds completely shagged out. He reaches for Draco, pulling him into a slow, sensual kiss. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” With a promise like that, Draco isn’t sure he’ll sleep at all. He can never nap in the middle of the day, and he’s surprised that Harry, with all his restless energy, is so able to crash out. Like everything else he does, it seems to be another sign of Harry’s easy way of being, sleep coming as naturally to him as flying Hippogriffs over the Forbidden Forest or going for an early morning swim in icy waters. As Harry snores softly beside him, Draco keeps his voice low as he reaches for his wand.

“Accio _In Search of Lost Time_.” The book flies from his shelf into his outstretched hand and he opens it up, glancing out of the window where the cool, crisp bright of the afternoon filters softly into the room.

Somewhere between paragraphs the writing gets blurred and Draco’s eyes grow heavy. After another few moments of struggling to read, he closes his book and curls closer to Harry.

He shuts his eyes and lets the heavy weight of sleep settle over him like a warm blanket.

*

It’s early evening when Draco wakes to find Harry fully dressed, sitting on the window ledge and watching the first snowfall of winter. The flakes are illuminated by the soft orange lamps that light the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade when darkness falls.

“You’re awake.” Harry holds up the Proust he’s obviously helped himself to from Draco’s bedside table and waves it in Draco’s general direction. “Are all your books this boring? I’m not surprised you fell asleep. I’ve read reports about Niffler shit that were more interesting.”

“You clearly don’t have any taste, not that I’m surprised.” Draco sniffs and sends the Proust back onto the bookshelf with a flick of his wand.

“You didn’t think I knew.” Harry looks back out of the window, his voice quiet. “That’s why you’ve been so weird.”

“No, I didn’t think you knew.” Draco’s mouth gets dry and he yearns to reach for Harry to bring him closer, but he isn’t sure he still has the right. “How long have you known?”

“From the start.” Harry turns to look at Draco at last. He leans back against the window ledge, his arms crossed which is a sure sign Draco shouldn’t come any closer yet. “You’ve got a very distinctive…” He trails off and coughs, indelicately.

“What the hell do you mean by that?” Draco growls. He gets out of bed and tugs on some pyjama bottoms because if he’s about to get dumped after less than twenty-four hours, he at least wants to avoid the indignity of being naked to boot. Heat rises in his cheeks as he thinks of the countless Evaporates they’ve exchanged. “A distinctive _what_?”

“Hand.” Harry raises an eyebrow as if he didn’t know exactly what he was implying, a smug look on his face. “You wear a signet ring with the Malfoy crest on. It’s not very subtle. Your Quick-Match Quill’s really loud too, obviously you didn’t read the instructions about turning the vibrations off. I could hear you getting notifications when I used to send you messages at the gym. That confirmed it.”

 _Fuck_. Draco looks at the ring he always wears on the third finger of his wand hand which is also his wanking hand. He didn’t think for one moment about the possibility a random wizard would know the old pure-blood family crests. Trust nosy-parker Potter to have done his research. 

“Why would you keep chatting to me if you’ve known all this time?” 

“Because I like chatting to you.” Harry gives Draco a strange look. “You did know it was me, didn’t you?” 

“Yes.” Draco nods, guiltily. “I’ve known from the start.”

“That’s alright then.” Harry lets out a sigh of relief. “When I realised Jean-Paul was you, I assumed you knew Griffin was me because of the tattoo. The only people that know about that are my friends, people I’ve shagged and you. You always used to watch me in the showers at the gym.”

“I was not _always_ watching you in the showers,” Draco splutters. “Circe you’re such an arrogant wanker.”

“I didn’t mind.” Harry grins. “I wouldn’t have spent so long towelling myself dry if I did. It made trips to the gym a lot more interesting. Why on earth do you think I bothered going to fly a fake broom when I could just fly a real one?”

“You’re unbelievable.” Draco shakes his head, but despite himself his lips curve into a smile.

“I’ve been trying to work up to a big reveal all week,” Harry continues. “It’s why I went to the shop on Friday, but you were closed for lunch. Not that there’s much revealing left to do.” He smirks and gives Draco’s crotch a pointed look.

“You’re a fine one to talk,” Draco mutters. He glares at Harry, who finally yanks his eyes upwards again. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew?”

“Why didn’t _you_ tell _me_?” Harry raises his eyebrows. “I was sick of pretending nothing was going on. I want to stop fucking around with Passion Parchment and Evaporates and make a proper go of things. I kept dropping hints, but you never seemed to take them. I just assumed you weren’t ready to take the next step because the press might make things difficult. I know you’re out, but there’s a difference between that and the fuss us having any kind of romantic relationship is bound to cause.”

“I’m not afraid,” Draco says. He finds he really isn’t. The idea that he would ever be ashamed of being with Harry is laughable. If anything, it should be Harry that has concerns about the publicity, not Draco. “It was never about that.”

“I wondered if you got off on pretending to be strangers.” Harry gives Draco a wry smile. “It was fun for a while, but it’s not for me. I like _touch_ , contact, physical affection. I didn’t get much of that when I was a kid. It’s important to me.”

“I understand.” Draco thinks of the warmth of Harry’s arms around him and finds his stomach twists with want, a deep, yearning desire for the same closeness. If he can touch Harry again, he doesn’t think he will ever stop. “I restore wands, Harry. It’s all about feeling magic, the sensations of it, the knots in the wood and the twist and curl of the cores. I want the same thing. Your magic is—”

Draco stops, because he can’t think of the right word. Seductive, he supposes, although that doesn’t seem quite right. There’s something ineffable about the way Harry’s magic feels. Even through a wilting wand, there was comfort in it, a warmth that mingled with the tenacity of a dying phoenix feather fighting against all of the odds to stay alive. 

“It would have been decent to tell me who you were sooner,” Harry comments. He gives Draco a thoughtful look. “You took your time.”

“I know.” Draco hates being reminded that he can be a selfish prick. It tends to make him defensive and he swallows back the urge to snap back at Harry. He knows he should have put a stop to things long before he did. 

“I suppose you told me in the end, before we ended up in bed.” Harry finally unfolds his arms and moves towards the bed, sitting next to Draco with just a small distance between them. “I appreciate that.”

“I’m not a total cretin.” Draco looks down, heat rising in his cheeks. It’s a mark of how much he’s changed that he’s able to bite back the tantrum that threatens to erupt. It would be so easy to tell Harry to fuck off and smash their fragile foundations into smithereens. “I should have said something sooner.”

“I shouldn’t have just assumed you knew. I wasn’t exactly upfront either.” Harry shifts closer to Draco. “Look, I’m going to level with you, Malfoy.”

“You might as well,” Draco says, resigned. He braces himself for the humiliation as Harry Potter tells him to naff off for good. 

“I like you.” Harry glances at Draco. “Quite a lot, actually. Is that okay?”

Harry looks so earnest, as if he’s genuinely concerned that it might not be okay. Draco’s heart soars and he runs his tongue over his lips, clearing his throat before speaking.

“Someone I used to know from school told me once that wizards are like wands. We all like to be wanted.”

“Not a problem,” Harry murmurs. His gaze flicks down to Draco’s lips. “This person from school, is this the one that you’ve been fantasising about? Some French bloke told me he’s great in bed.”

“I think you told me that.” Draco turns his eyes heavenward. “It’s not an ongoing fantasy. More on and off. When I’m bored.”

“Yeah, right.” Harry laughs and he moves to stretch out on the bed, propping himself up on the pillows. He gives Draco a broad smile. “Come here, will you?”

Draco moves over Harry, the memory of last night and the scent of Harry’s cologne still lingering on his skin. He moves to kiss him, but Harry clearly has other ideas. 

“Up here,” Harry murmurs. He urges Draco onto his knees, so he’s cock to mouth level with Harry. “Didn’t you have a go at me once for asking where you wanted that ex-schoolmate of yours to kiss you? Something about…needing more warming up.”

“I was an idiot, Potter.” Draco’s voice is rough and breathless, his cock already getting hard as Harry’s talented fingers stroke over his hips, brushing against the front of his pyjamas and moving around to cup the globes of his backside. “Delirious with the stress of trying to retain my air of mystery.”

“Oh yeah, that.” Harry chuckles and reaches for his Alder wand. Holding Draco’s gaze, he doesn’t say a word and Draco’s pyjamas disappear to fuck knows where. “This wand’s a tricky bastard. I think I sent those to the laundry but there’s a chance they might have ended up in Lichtenstein.”

“I’ll buy new ones.” Draco presses his hand against the wall, which is cool from the outside chill. It’s a sharp contrast to the heat that flares in his body as Harry’s fingers press lightly into the curve of his arse. “I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t think what you’re about to do is described as a _kiss_.”

“No?” Harry presses his mouth to the hard line of Draco’s cock, running his lips along the shaft. “How about now?” 

The hum of his voice and the vibrations of his lips against Draco’s sensitive skin already feel impossibly good.

“Still no,” Draco manages. “Is this what you had in mind?”

“Not quite,” Harry murmurs. He runs his tongue over the head of Draco’s cock, then pulls back, giving him a cheeky grin. “What I had in mind involves you facing the other way, actually.”

“Merlin.” Draco bites back an _unf_ of pleasure.

He’s about to make another smart remark in response, when Harry stops tracing butterfly kisses over his shaft and mouths over him, taking his cock into the back of his throat. 

Of all the ways Draco expected to spend this Saturday evening, being deep-throated by Harry wasn’t one of them but he can’t say he’s complaining. He sucks in a sharp breath, trying to avoid bucking into Harry’s mouth to allow him to control the pace.

“You can, you know.” Harry pulls back momentarily and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. His eyes are shining and he gives Draco an insolent smile. “I know you want to.”

“You’re going to be the death of me.” Draco fists his hand into Harry’s unruly hair and with a groan, he slides back into his mouth. He attempts a few practice thrusts to ensure Harry really did just give Draco permission to fuck his mouth, and then stops overthinking it. 

Draco’s body comes alive as he moves inside the hot, slick channel of Harry’s mouth. Harry seems to like it rough, and Draco tugs his head so he can watch his cock sliding in and out of Harry’s mouth. It’s blissfully, brilliantly good. He usually prides himself on being able to fuck someone slow, deep and long but with Harry everything is different. When Harry takes control back and grips Draco’s backside to pull him in, the white heat of his orgasm tears through him with a speed that almost takes him by surprise. His legs tremble from the effort of holding himself upright and Draco moves off Harry to collapse onto the bed.

“Fuck me,” he says.

“Gladly.” Harry props himself up on his elbow and looks down at Draco. “If that’s what you want.”

“Yes. In a minute.” Draco moves his fingers down Harry’s stomach, drinking in the heat of his skin and the damp beads of sweat. He wants to taste every inch of Harry’s body and determines to do so before the weekend finishes. He circles his fingers around Harry’s cock and gives him a slow stroke. “Do you want a hand with this?”

“Careful,” Harry laughs. “My bad lines are rubbing off on you.”

“There are worse things that could happen.” Draco moves his hand and brushes his lips to Harry’s. “Do I take it that’s a no?”

“It is if you want me inside you,” Harry murmurs. He really does have the filthiest mouth. He captures Draco’s lips in a warm, searching kiss and he tastes of salt and toothpaste, which he must have pilfered from Draco’s bathroom. “Are you going to get rid of your Quick-Match stuff?”

“Of course.” Draco pulls back to look at Harry with a frown. “Aren’t you?”

“I don’t know.” Harry shrugs. “I don’t want any unsolicited Evaporates, but it was fun, wasn’t it? I won’t be able to have overnight visitors at the school during term time and they’re also dead strict about when staff can stay elsewhere. I had to get permission from McGonagall for this weekend.”

“Confident, weren’t you?” 

“Hopeful,” Harry corrects. “It would have been a bit of a bore to get things going then having to go back to my room in the dungeons. I’m with all the bloody Slytherins.” He winces. “No offence.”

“None taken.” Draco rolls his eyes. “You want to keep using Quick-Match?”

“Yeah.” Harry gives Draco a smile. “I like talking to you when I get up and go to bed.”

“You like wanking you mean.” Draco hopes Harry knows he’s only teasing. He thinks he would miss Griffin’s adventures with all creatures great and small if they had to give up Quick-Match altogether. “How do I know you won’t go off looking for new wizards?”

“You trust me.” Instead of joking, Harry is firm and serious. He gives Draco another one of those steady gazes that seem even more attractive now they’re in bed together. “And I trust you. Anyway, it won’t all be Quick-Match. We’ll just have to fuck whenever we get some time to ourselves, until term ends.”

“I think I can manage that.” Draco rolls over onto his front and turns to look at Harry, who gives him an amused smile. “You should probably start practicing now.”

If the enthusiasm exhibited in the next half hour is anything to go by, Harry is all too happy to oblige.

*

**One Month Later**

There was a time when there were few things that infuriated Draco more than the sight of Harry Potter catching the Snitch.

It turns out, perspective is everything. When you’re fucking the Seeker, everything is different. Draco whoops and cheers so loudly Zabini starts giving him dirty looks. Draco doesn’t know what Zabini’s problem is. At least he’s not wearing a Gryffindor scarf, Merlin forbid.

When Draco finally gets Harry alone in his Quidditch leathers, he knows from the people milling around he can’t exactly do anything about it, but he makes a mental note to bring the topic up with Harry at a more opportune moment.

“You played moderately well,” he drawls instead. Draco is a reformed character, but he’s still an arsehole when he wants to be.

“Thanks. I saw you supporting the team _moderately well_.” Harry glances around and reaches for Draco, pulling him closer. He presses his warm lips to Draco’s ear and lowers his voice. “If you’re interested, I can keep these on for later. McGonagall’s given me the weekend off, which means I can come over if you want.”

“You read my mind.” Draco slides his hand down to Harry’s waist, keeping his own voice quiet and smooth. “Don’t bother showering.”

“Kinky.” Harry grins and gives Draco a quick kiss, something they’re both still getting used to in public places. A reporter from the _Prophet_ snaps a photograph and Draco tugs Harry away, before he can go off on one. 

“How’s your wand?” Away from the crowds, they stroll towards the castle to collect Harry’s things before going into Hogsmeade for the after party at the Three Broomsticks. 

“Is that a euphemism?” Harry takes his wand from his holster and casts a line of snowflakes. They burst from the tip of the wand, then fall around them, leaving icy kisses against Draco’s face. “Working better than ever, thanks to you.”

It took just shy of a month to restore Harry’s wand to its full glory and for reasons Draco doesn’t fully understand, the significance of that particular phoenix and the use of her tears left Harry in a strange, melancholy place during part of the process. The old Draco would have demanded more information, but whenever he was tempted to push, he bit his tongue. There are things about Harry’s past that Draco is never going to know about, and he understands why. They both make a conscious effort to focus on the future instead of the past, even though some conversations naturally take them back to the events that shaped who they both are today.

They gather Harry’s things into a small rucksack and make their way back out of the castle, into the icy winter air. The fresh snow is crisp beneath their feet as they leave Hogwarts behind and make their way at a steady pace towards the school gates.

Next to the gates is a Wiggentree, and Harry looks around to check there’s nobody coming or going. Within seconds, Draco finds his back against the bark as Harry kisses him soundly. He smells like Quidditch leathers, the light muskiness of sweat and the fresh winter air. With a groan of pleasure—watching Harry play Quidditch is better than any Evaporate—Draco pushes his hands into Harry’s hair and deepens the kiss.

Breathless, they pull apart and Harry traces light, feathery kisses along Draco’s neck. He looks deliciously rumpled, his lips warm on Draco’s skin and his hair askew. 

“I meant to ask if I can keep that wand you let me borrow. I can pay you.”

“I can think of other things you can do,” Draco replies. “I have plenty in stock, I don’t mind if you want to use it still. I thought you said it hated you.”

“Because it did, at first.” Harry shrugs. “It took some time, but it really is brilliant for non-verbal magic. Once we reached an understanding, I’ve been able to cast non-verbal spells with it that I’ve been working on for ages.”

“They do say when Alder matches with a witch or wizard with a particular strength of conviction, there’s no better wand wood. Keep it. I’ve got some ideas about what I would like in return.”

“I bet you have.” With a grin, Harry leans in and gives Draco another kiss, slow and filthy. “You’re getting me hard,” he murmurs, pressing closer to Draco and breathing him in as he tries to steady himself. “Can we go to the shop before the after party?”

“ _Yes_.” Draco knows there’s precious little chance of either of them keeping their hands off one another at the party unless they take the edge off. He’s also fairly sure McGonagall wouldn’t be too happy to hear her star employee was getting sucked off by Draco Malfoy under a Wiggentree.

“I’m glad I didn’t just give up on that wand, even if it was a right dickhead at first.” Harry tugs Draco through the gates and they begin the walk into Hogsmeade. “It was worth a little perseverance.”

“Are we still talking about the wand?” Draco glances at Harry. 

“Yeah, I was.” Harry smiles and the heat behind his gaze warms the winter air. “But other things are worth persevering with too.”

“I’m lucky you’re stubborn as a centaur.” Draco looks up at the crisp, clear sky. “It’s starting to snow.”

“Is it?” Harry’s mouth seeks out Draco’s with another deep searching kiss. “I really hadn’t noticed.”

 _Thank you_ , Draco thinks, as he returns Harry’s kisses with fervour.

 _Thank you for not giving up on difficult things_.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part of HD Erised 2020; thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥


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